A New, Better World
by ShadowPenguin5
Summary: Set in an alternate universe where Roran becomes a dragon rider and Galbatorix beats the Varden.


**Hi, this is the start of a new multi-chapter fic I'm working on set in an AU of Alagaësia. The prologue is sort of setting the scene for the rest of the fic which will be set a long time after this. I hope you enjoy reading it.**

 **Prologue**

The King sat on his golden throne. Around him the room was in disarray, but it didn't matter because he had won. No longer would the rebels and thieves, criminals and liars plunder his land and terrorise his people.

The war had been long fought but the turning point for them had been the moment the green dragon egg had hatched for a farmer's son. One who, vowing revenge upon his cousin, had set out on his mission of vengeance. After months of searching he found himself at Urû'baen, penniless and starving and, once there, had to sleep rough, trying to scrounge enough money to leave the city and continue his quest. However, one ominous night a terrible storm hit the city. His hunger making him reckless, he sought shelter inside the palace.

Whether by magic or just good luck, he met no guards or servants as he wandered the palace and made his way further into the maze of never ending corridors. A room, with the door ajar, caught his eye. He pushed the door and and it swung open easily. The room was almost entirely empty apart from a table in the centre. Upon the table was the most beautiful stone the man had ever seen. Its green hue pulsated with a life of its own, the only visible sign of the magic that permeated the room. A teardrop shaped lantern hung above it, emitting a clear light. Curtains draped the walls, a sea of block colour against the ever-changing beauty of the stone

Transfixed, he moved further in.

As he reached out his hand to touch the stone, it wobbled. Suddenly, caught in a moment of indecision, too terrified to move closer but too curious to move back, he stood there, completely still, as the stone's movements became more frantic. A crack appeared on the top of the stone and quickly made its way down, splitting the stone in half. A tiny dragon emerged from the crack in the stone and moved away from the shards. It looked curiously at the man which brought him out of his stupor.

He could see that the dragon was about to make a noise that would alert guards that something was happening so he moved to stop the dragon. As soon as his hand touched the dragons head an unbearable heat began to make its way up his arm. It grew in intensity as it spread throughout his body until he felt as though he was made of fire. The man couldn't move and panic overwhelmed him but then, as suddenly as the pain had started, it stopped and the man found his hand still on the dragon, which was now looking at him curiously. A buzz filled his ears.

Afraid and with the memory of agonising pain still sharp in his mind the man fled the room. In his attempt to get as far away from the dragon as possible he lost his way and soon found himself in a corridor that he didn't recognise. His terror rising and with no other option the man tried to retrace his steps back to the room with the dragon but his luck ran out and, even as he started to see familiar artwork in the corridors he was following, he ran headfirst into a group of palace guards.

They dragged him to the throne room. The King, a crown studded with so many jewels it could have kept a family well fed for the rest of their lives resting precariously on his head, was standing with his back to the doorway, consulting a woman. A black curtain of a fabric that the man couldn't identify masked the back wall of the room and the other walls were lavishly decorated with images of long lost battles and long dead men. Once upon a time the man could have spent hours pondering the images on the walls but since his departure from home his revenge had come to mean more to him than anything: his life, his home, even the woman he had once thought he would marry.

The King turned when the guards dragged the man in. The woman he had been talking to moved closer and studied the man with an intense curiosity only seen on the faces of scholars. The King had known there was an intruder as soon as the man had stepped foot in the palace, he explained, and had allowed the man to find the room with the egg as he knew that there was great power in the intruder and hoped that, finally, the green dragon would hatch.

The King then asked to see the man's palms. The guards forced his hands forwards and the man fought back, however, his hunger and lack of sleep caught up with him and the guards could overpower him and move his palms into the light. The man looked at his palms as the King moved closer to examine them. A scar had appeared on his right hand, an oval of luminescent skin. He flexed his fingers and it moved as though part of his skin.

The King drew close. He took the man's right hand in both of his and traced his index finger over the scar. He called it a gedwëy ignasia and ordered the guards to release the man at once. His voice, as soft as his hands, then explained to the man about the dragon riders, their tyrannous reign and how he had finally brought peace to Alagaësia. He told the man of the group of people who, even at that moment, were planning to overthrow him and bring back the dark ages.

He spun a web with his words that ensnared the man with his story and made him feel emotions that he hadn't felt in a long time – empathy, despair, sorrow – and one that he was, by now, intimately familiar with – anger. However, it was not the story of woe that the King was telling the ultimately convinced the man to work for him to destroy the rebels, it was the name of the foe that they would have to bring down in order to secure their victory.

His cousin was the enemy dragon rider leading the charge to remove the civilisation that the King had created. His cousin, the reason that his father had died and his family home was destroyed. His cousin, the reason that he had left Carvahall and was now kneeling before the King. Consumed with vengeance, the man swore, in a foreign tongue the King taught him, that he would stop the marauders from taking the land and, with his dragon at his side, avenge his father's death by killing the lone dragon rider that threatened Alagaësia.

The King then stood the man up and embraced him.

"You, my son, shall be the bringer of the new world. Together we shall remove the blights from this land and create a new, better world out of their ashes. You, Roran Shur'tugal, shall bring peace."

* * *

The war had damaged the city beyond repair and the King knew that it was only a matter of time before he would have to leave the confines of his palace and face the rest of the world. Delaying the inevitable, the King ran his hands over the once beautiful images on the walls of the throne room. Now burned beyond recognition, he could still see the past victories and imagined the images that he would have created for his new throne room; a throne room twice the size of this one, so that Shruikan had space to grow. In his mind's eye he could see the statues that would decorate the walls. Himself, Murtagh and Roran, standing side by side, a united front that had successfully removed the tyrants from Alagaësia. Not that it had always been easy.

Roran's training had been tough. The King had given him and his dragon, Oruthian, over to Murtagh and Thorn to train, a test of loyalty and patience for both. It took months for Roran to master magic, flying riding, sword fighting and mind control. Similarly, Oruthian battled against his magical enhancements of strength and size which slowed his progress in flying and fire breathing. The Varden took many of the southern cities during this time, which only made the King more irritated and the training more brutal.

Eventually, the King decided that his dragon riders were ready and sent them to wreak havoc on the Varden and all their allies. Oromis was the first to fall at their hands, with Glaedr following soon after. The Elves, mourning their deaths, stayed within the leafy confines of Du Weldenvarden and the Dwarves, seeing two enemy dragons in the skies, retreated into the fathoms of the Beor mountains. The Varden and the Urgals fought valiantly until the end but, without support, soon crumbled and, when their leader, Nasuada, was kidnapped by Thorn, they split into factions which were picked off one by one.

Only Eragon and Saphira made it to Urû'baen.

It was the first time Roran had seen his cousin up close in years. As Eragon knelt before him, head forced into a bowed position and blood pouring from an empty eye socket, Roran realised he no longer felt the burning hatred that had spurred him on months before. He had become the man that he wanted to kill and Eragon, poor Eragon, had never meant harm while all he had done since that moment was harm. His resolve broke but his oath didn't and his sword fell, severing limb and life from the man he had loved, hated, and, in his final moments, forgiven.

Saphira's pain echoed throughout the throne room. Her breath scorched the walls and her tail and claws destroyed all in reach, and they did nothing to stop her; the King still needed a female dragon. Saphira, along with Nasuada, were forced to swear fealty to the King, and were held in cells to remind the people what happens to those who fight back.

The war was over, the rebels quashed, Surda was brought tightly under the control of the King and the future of the dragons was secured. But not all the victors felt that they had won. Roran often saw Murtagh walking in the direction of the cells, or found himself imaging a girl with auburn hair and wishing that he hadn't left her behind.


End file.
